Berwick's stories
Apr. 4th, 2006 11:49 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
seandcMy grandfather, Hardy Berwick Hanton, had quite a reputation as a raconteur. I was too young to remember many of his stories first-hand, but he was a member of a writers group at the retirement village he lived in during the early 90s, so I've found a couple of his stories of his town when he was a young man.
WHEN THE RITES WERE WRONG
Some sixty-odd years ago it was, in our little wheat-belt town and, although I was not present at the event, I had the tale of it that evening from one who was. Lofty (who topped five feet three inches with some difficulty), had something of a reputation locally as a raconteur. Blue, a young casual labourer, had died and been buried that afternoon.
Said Lofty: 'Well, there we are, gathered at the cemetery. Only 'arf a dozen or so, but we done ole 'Blue' as proud as we could. 'E wus a Coldstream Guard yer know 'n' the porl-bearers wus 'Tiny' uv the Grenadiers, 'Tubby' uv the same mob, 'Sandy' frum some other Pommy regiment, 'Scotty' uv the Black Watch 'n', representin' this great 'n' glorious country fit fer 'eroes ter live in, Norm uv the 10th Light 'Orse - yeah, wun uv the originals wot survived from Gallipoli - 'n' me frum the 11th Battalion. 'N' wen I sez porl-bearers, that's just wot I mean; yer carried the coffin and yer lowered it inter the grave.
'Things wusn't lookin' enny too good 's far 's the weather was concerned. There wus 'eavy clouds bankin' up 'n' it 'ad started ter drizzle. 'Owever, there wusn't ennything we could do about it so we carried on. The Biblebasher wus a decent sorter yung feller jest out frum England, which wus sorter fittin' I suppose, fer 'Blue'. Ennyway, 'e 'as enuff sense ter bring 'is umberella which 'e 'oists 'n gets goin'.
Jest as 'e sez the first words, down she comes! They sez as it weren't a cloud-burst. Well, maybe it weren't but, stone the crows, it wus a pretty good substitute. In no time flat we wus all soppin'. The parson sez p'raps we'd better wait; but Tiny suggests forcibly that we'd better get the b***** box down the b***** 'ole before the b***** thing comes awash! So the porlbearers grabs the tapes 'n' starts ter lower away, but by this time the soil is movin’ ‘n' we're a bit 'ard put to it ter keep our feet. Suddenly the tape slips thru' me 'ands, 'n' at this, Norm, 'oo is oppersit rne, jerks back'ds, 'is feet go up in the air 'n' 'e lan's on 'is back fair 'n' square on the coffin. The weight tears the tapes out 'uv the others' 'ands 'n' there's the box floatin', its top level with the top uv the grave, 'n' Norm tryin' ter balance on it. Well, solemn occasion or no, we wus pretty near 'elpless with laughin'. 'Owever, we does manage ter drag 'im on to terrer fermer, as the classy books call it, but then we're faced with the fact that the coffin is floatin' and showin' no signs uv sinkin'.
'Tubby suggests that we throw a few shovelfuls uv dirt on it, which we proceeds ter do. The only effect bein' that most uv the dirt slides off inter the water, and Norm points out that if we go on slingin' dirt inter the ‘ole, the coffin cert'nly won't finish up the regulation six feet under. At this stage Sandy, 'oos sense of 'umour is vanishin' with the rooination of ‘is best soot, gives tongue: 'Well, b***** me - sorry Pardray, 'the only solution I can see is, we scuttle the b***** ship!''N' that sets us off agen. Doubtless he cood'uve put it a bit more delicate like but reely it was the only solution. Uv corse the Sin-curer wus outraged, but we gathers aroun' 'im 'n' manages ter tork 'im round.
'While we're doin' this, Jim ('e wus the undertaker-cum-smith-cum-carrier etc.) 'ad got a brace-'n'-bit frurn 'is truck 'n' is busy borin' a 'ole or two in the coffin. As soon as we gits the Gorspil-cove roun' ter the logical way uv thinkin' we wus able to lend a 'and 'n' it isn't long before the coffin sinks frum sight. We 'ears the remainin' prayers all prop'ly solemn-like, shovels in the dirt 'n' goes 'ome.
'At least, that's what most of us does. Norm 'n' me is travellin' with Jim in the frunt uv the 'earse, w'ich, uv corse, is only the 'earse body on the back uv Jim's truck. We've jest gone a 'undred yards or so w'en Jim gives a 'owl: 'b***** h***', he yells, 'ther b***** meat! I forgot ter take ther meat ter ole Dozy (the local butcher)'. With that 'e wrenches ther flamin' wheel round an' ‘eads fer the slaughter yards. There 'e loads the ruddy meat (an operation in which we refuses point-blank to 'elp') in ter the 'earse 'n proceeds ter drive down the main street ter deliver it. Yer c'n imagine the yells uv joy from the butcher w'en 'e sees the coach! 'N' I tell yer sumthin' else - I'm a vegetarian fer the next cuppler weeks!'
End of Lofty's account.
He wasn't the only one!
Note: Berwick, aware of his informant's lurid language, kindly inserted asterisks in consideration of sensitive readers. Ed.
AND JUSTICE WAS DONE
Some few years prior to the first half of the decade of the 1930s, the Premier of Western Australia, James Mitchell (later Governor and knighted) was able to bring to fruition a project he had long espoused - that was to introduce into the gold-mining industry a system of annual medical examination whereby those miners who had contracted Miners' Phthisis would be refused, legally, permission to work underground.
The main difficulty arose in providing a living for those 'dusted' miners now without a job. To this end 'Jimmy the Mitch' as he was popularly called, had thrown open an area of land to become known as ‘The Miners' Settlement', south of Southern Cross, with the small town of Marvel Loch as its centre. There the ex-miners and their families were set up as a farming community.
After a time the scheme sorted itself out and things began to look-up. Miners by profession do not automatically become farmers, though most of the older men, who could physically meet the demands of this new life, strove mightily to meet the new conditions. -The young men, generally, took well to the farm work, as did those who left school; and it seemed that the dream of 'Jimmy the Mitch' was at last showing signs of paying off.
Then came the depression. Soon money for the scheme became unavailable. The Agricultural Bank (the forerunner of the Rural & Industries) under which the scheme operated, had no more funds. Not only that, but it had made advances against the next crop and the unfortunate 'new' farmers were in a severe predicament: they had no income and could look forward to none as the return for whatever crop they could put in belonged to the Bank.
In desperation numbers of them sold here and there a bag of wheat to local stores to buy food, or fuel - mainly food. However, late in 1933 the bank suddenly moved against them, charging the farmers with stealing from the bank and, in some cases, also charging storekeepers with receiving the wheat in payment, knowing it to be stolen.
To reduce a long story, thirty or so persons were so charged and It became evident, even to the authorities in Perth, that all was not well. Stipendiary Magistrate, H. D. Mosely was sent from Perth to Southern Cross to try the cases. Mosely was a fine man, a man soundly versed in the law, of strong moral character and, all in all, one in whom a technical wrongdoer could put his trust. The Public prosecutor appeared for the Bank and one or two men represented the accused.
All in all it was a cause celebre and the Perth papers sent some of their foremost reporters to cover the proceedings. Mosely did not put a foot wrong. On the first morning two of the local parsons bearded him in his retiring room to plead the cases of their respective flocks. With them he was firm, but unbending - 'I have a job to do', he said, 'and propose to do it fairly to the best of my ability, and with that assurance you must be content.' He left them to walk the few extra steps along the corridor and, to a solemn hush, entered the packed Southern Cross courthouse.
So began a week of case after case - similar in general terms, different in the extent and magnitude of their hardships and privations, dragged out, at first, from these reluctant miners. Mosely was magnificent. In firm but friendly manner he quickly showed his interest and concern, so that these initially hostile men and women (wives appeared for husbands physically unfit to be present), whose pride had been such that they tended to suffer in silence rather than let it be thought they sought charity, soon were pouring out their woes and their ingrained sense of injustice. They had been beaten by circumstances, not from any fault of their own.
Most of the livestock had been sold, or eaten. It was said that cats had been acceptable and even the odd rat gave some substance to the diet which included grass and weeds - 'palatable' was not a term they could afford to be bothered about. Kerosene substituted for petrol for a time and tyres were stuffed with grass. Clothing? At home they were ragged and often barefooted. For coming to town they reserved that one dress or suit which denied to some extent the ravages of time and poverty.
Moseley, stern but sympathetic, listened. He pointed out the seriousness of their actions but recorded no convictions against the ex-miners. And, justice was seen to be done.
FIRE BUG
It’s strange how one thing will lead to another. Startled by a conflagration which followed the gardeners' attempt to tidy up a Blackboy (Xanthorrhea pressii) - a plant that would have been here probably when Dirk Hartog was cruising our coast, my mind conjured up a picture from the past.
It was the fire that did it - the leaping flames and the billowing smoke. I was back in Southern Cross about sixty years ago. Southern Cross, an old gold mining town affectionately known as 'the Cross', was then experiencing a come-back, with mining flourishing throughout the district. In common with similar towns of the era, most of the buildings were timber-built with iron roofing. Fortunately, at this stage of the town's history there was a good water supply, thanks to C.Y. O'Connor, or this story could have had a very different ending.
About 2 am on a Monday morning we were rudely awakened by the furious ringing of the town fire-bell; to a curious golden light; to the sound of many feet rushing along the main street and to the shouts and yells of the local volunteer fire-brigade going into action - the engine man-handled, of course. The road was left clear for them, but the footpaths on either side were packed with townsfolk in all the motley display of garb that might be expected at that hour.
It appeared that some bright spark (no pun intended) had set fire to the Lesser Hall only about sixty yards from our place. Whoever it was had timed it nicely, for the hall was well alight before discovery was made. The Lesser Hall stood only a few feet away from Hall, consequently, it quickly became apparent that the immediate job was to save the Hall. Fortunately, the night was almost windless. Opposite the burning building was a cleared space of some size and here the local residents had a good view and room to stand back from the considerable heat generated. The fire brigade made a valiant effort to contain the blaze to the Lesser Hall. They succeeded but all the gear and all the records of the many various groups that had met in the hall were irrevocably lost.
All was quiet again. But not for long. In fact, only until Wednesday morning when, about 6 am, the chilling sound of the fire-bell rang out again. This time it was the building next to ours - one that had been converted from a General Store to a Service Station with a show-room and motor repair shop. Once again there was plenty of excitement but, with the fire-men really on the ball, the fire was put out in quick time. In fact all that I can remember from a kaleidoscope of memory is my Dad striding about commanding 'Do this' or 'Do that' and doing absolutely nothing while Mum wandered about with a pair of shoes in her hand saying, 'What shall I do with these?’ Perhaps it's just as well I cannot remember Dad's reply.
Again, things settled down to normalcy, but only until Thursday evening when the waiting room at the Railway Station caught fire, was discovered quickly and as quickly extinguished. There was only a little gathering of onlookers, for the station was a mile from the town.
But it was one more fire. It seemed a fire-bug was at work. People began to look wonderingly at one another. Suspicion was in the air. It was a most unpleasant feeling, beginning to poison the whole town. Who could this person be?
Friday passed without incident. Then, on Saturday evening, just as the pictures were coming out, at about 10.30 pm, a fire was seen deep under the Roads Board Hall, at the very centre of town. Someone had deliberately crawled beneath it - timber buildings were built off the ground on stumps - and set the fire well back. A local lad hurled himself under the building,
hauled out the burning debris and foiled the planned destruction.
This time action was taken. A hastily convened meeting of several leading men of the town - both Chairman and Secretary of the Road Board, the Post Master, the Bank Manager (my father), a couple of the members of the Road Board and me (by invitation) met in the Road Board Office and I was asked if ! would act officially as nightwatchman and guardian of the town. Why they picked on me goodness only knows -except that I was free, and over twentyone. I was issued with a .32 revolver, fully loaded, and told that it would be my duty to patrol the town and, in the event of meeting or seeing any suspicious character, I was to shoot without warning. Ye Gods! I had never fired a revolver in my life. I was given an instant brief lecture on the theory of small arms and told that stern occasions demanded stern measures; that I was acting under the instructions of responsible persons and that no blame would be attached to me. Comforting thought. At the time it did not occur to me as strange that neither the police sergeant nor his constable were present. The Committee were deadly serious. So, having agreed, I went straight on duty. It was then 11:30 pm and I was to patrol until 8 am.
I have spent a more pleasant night. Not that anything happened, except that at one stage I spotted a character moving cautiously from one point to another. Having put. all my Boy Scout training into somewhat belated practice, I was rather deflated to have him suddenly come up behind me then give a hearty sigh of relief as he breathed, 'Oh, it's you.' Believe me, his sigh of relief was a gentle zephyr compared with mine. He was one of the younger married men of the town and, as a self-appointed custodian of the peace, was trailing me as a suspicious character. We spent a few minutes consoling one another, then went our separate ways - his, to bed, mine to my solitary policing. . I have wondered since, just what was my legal position on that night. But it was so long ago.
There were no more fires in the town but the police swooped on two of the local young men and brought them to trial in the local court where they were remanded to Perth. There, although it seemed the evidence was strongly against them, a shrewd lawyer made much of the fact that, although the evidence against one was strong, that against the other was highly doubtful and, as they had been charged jointly, instead of severally, either both were guilty or both innocent. They were freed.
However, it was 'suggested' to the men that it would be 'inadvisable' for them to return to the Cross. And it was so.
From Rowethorpe Writings : a selection
Rowethorpe Retirement Village, Bentley, 1990.
This next story recounts something that happened on holiday in the early 1970s while visiting Bateman's, the residence of author Rudyard Kipling.
A SUPERNATURAL ENCOUNTER
It was all triggered off by Freda's ghost story, the other week, for it hit a chord in my memory of an incident that occurred some seventeen years ago when my wife (no, not Dora, my first wife) and I were holidaying in England for some eight months.
One day we found ourselves, after a deal of careful map reading and conversation with the locals, at Bateman's in Sussex. Actually, Bateman's is not the name of a village but that of a fascinating small manor house about a mile beyond the pretty and delightful village of Burwash, and is famed as the home for many years of that gifted novelist and poet Rudyard Kipling. Bateman's is, indeed, a small place amongst the many great places and houses of the British Isles, but it has about it an aura of homeliness that made it, the only one of the many great and historic residences that we visited, a place which we coveted as our own.
We spent some time examining and exploring the ground floor rooms and went upstairs to the more private apartments until we came to the great man's study, in time to find a gentleman locking it securely. I let out a hollow groan, whereupon he turned and enquired whether I were in some trouble. I curbed my natural bent of Australian humour and said that we had been hoping to see the study. In turn he informed me that, had I read the notices concerning the house, I would have been aware that it was closed to visitors from noon until 2 pm. This he did with such charm and good-heartedness that I responded in the same manner, but told him we were on our way to a place some distance away and had allowed only until two o'clock to get there.
His discovery that I, too, was keenly interested in Rudyard Kipling, led to such a discussion that one of his assistants came five times to remind him of closing time in descending order of brevity, concluding with ‘Your dinner is cold'. We thanked him for his interesting and informative talk and he said, 'Oh well, if you have to get away, I'll break a rule.' Whereupon he
unlocked the door and told us to go in and look around and please to close the door when we left.
We spent a long time in the study, maintained as though the great man himself were ready to go in and set to work. There was a copy of 'The Recessional', written in his own hand, lying on his blotter, a pen ready to hand and ink in the inkwell. We spent a long time looking at everything and recalling all the wonderful works he had created in this very room.
As we left the study Dorothy said to me, 'You're very quiet. I thought you would have been brimming over with ecstasy at this visit.'
I looked at her without speaking for a moment.
Then she spoke again. 'You not only are very quiet, but you look, somehow, rather queer.'
At this I found my tongue, and said in tones of awe and very quietly, 'I don't really know how to say this, but while we were in his study, I felt as though there were someone else in the room; not a person, but rather... a presence...' To my surprise, Dorothy replied, 'So did I. I wasn't going to say anything because I was afraid you'd laugh at me and reckon I have too vivid an imagination. But I did feel it.' I was staggered. This was something beyond my ken. I added, 'It wasn't a sort of ghostly feeling - rather a comfortable, warm feeling, as though someone was trying to make us feel at home.'
'That's just it,' said Dorothy.
At that moment, the head guide returned. We rather expected some comment about our still being there after having said we couldn't afford the time. Instead, he looked steadily at us and quietly said, 'So you have felt it, too. I have known several folk who have had the experience and you all have had the same awe-struck look. I, too, have felt that peculiarly warm feeling of friendship. I can't explain it, but it happens to only a few. You are privileged.'
From Rowethorpe Writings 2 : a selection
Rowethorpe Retirement Village, Bentley W.A., 1991.
WHEN THE RITES WERE WRONG
Some sixty-odd years ago it was, in our little wheat-belt town and, although I was not present at the event, I had the tale of it that evening from one who was. Lofty (who topped five feet three inches with some difficulty), had something of a reputation locally as a raconteur. Blue, a young casual labourer, had died and been buried that afternoon.
Said Lofty: 'Well, there we are, gathered at the cemetery. Only 'arf a dozen or so, but we done ole 'Blue' as proud as we could. 'E wus a Coldstream Guard yer know 'n' the porl-bearers wus 'Tiny' uv the Grenadiers, 'Tubby' uv the same mob, 'Sandy' frum some other Pommy regiment, 'Scotty' uv the Black Watch 'n', representin' this great 'n' glorious country fit fer 'eroes ter live in, Norm uv the 10th Light 'Orse - yeah, wun uv the originals wot survived from Gallipoli - 'n' me frum the 11th Battalion. 'N' wen I sez porl-bearers, that's just wot I mean; yer carried the coffin and yer lowered it inter the grave.
'Things wusn't lookin' enny too good 's far 's the weather was concerned. There wus 'eavy clouds bankin' up 'n' it 'ad started ter drizzle. 'Owever, there wusn't ennything we could do about it so we carried on. The Biblebasher wus a decent sorter yung feller jest out frum England, which wus sorter fittin' I suppose, fer 'Blue'. Ennyway, 'e 'as enuff sense ter bring 'is umberella which 'e 'oists 'n gets goin'.
Jest as 'e sez the first words, down she comes! They sez as it weren't a cloud-burst. Well, maybe it weren't but, stone the crows, it wus a pretty good substitute. In no time flat we wus all soppin'. The parson sez p'raps we'd better wait; but Tiny suggests forcibly that we'd better get the b***** box down the b***** 'ole before the b***** thing comes awash! So the porlbearers grabs the tapes 'n' starts ter lower away, but by this time the soil is movin’ ‘n' we're a bit 'ard put to it ter keep our feet. Suddenly the tape slips thru' me 'ands, 'n' at this, Norm, 'oo is oppersit rne, jerks back'ds, 'is feet go up in the air 'n' 'e lan's on 'is back fair 'n' square on the coffin. The weight tears the tapes out 'uv the others' 'ands 'n' there's the box floatin', its top level with the top uv the grave, 'n' Norm tryin' ter balance on it. Well, solemn occasion or no, we wus pretty near 'elpless with laughin'. 'Owever, we does manage ter drag 'im on to terrer fermer, as the classy books call it, but then we're faced with the fact that the coffin is floatin' and showin' no signs uv sinkin'.
'Tubby suggests that we throw a few shovelfuls uv dirt on it, which we proceeds ter do. The only effect bein' that most uv the dirt slides off inter the water, and Norm points out that if we go on slingin' dirt inter the ‘ole, the coffin cert'nly won't finish up the regulation six feet under. At this stage Sandy, 'oos sense of 'umour is vanishin' with the rooination of ‘is best soot, gives tongue: 'Well, b***** me - sorry Pardray, 'the only solution I can see is, we scuttle the b***** ship!''N' that sets us off agen. Doubtless he cood'uve put it a bit more delicate like but reely it was the only solution. Uv corse the Sin-curer wus outraged, but we gathers aroun' 'im 'n' manages ter tork 'im round.
'While we're doin' this, Jim ('e wus the undertaker-cum-smith-cum-carrier etc.) 'ad got a brace-'n'-bit frurn 'is truck 'n' is busy borin' a 'ole or two in the coffin. As soon as we gits the Gorspil-cove roun' ter the logical way uv thinkin' we wus able to lend a 'and 'n' it isn't long before the coffin sinks frum sight. We 'ears the remainin' prayers all prop'ly solemn-like, shovels in the dirt 'n' goes 'ome.
'At least, that's what most of us does. Norm 'n' me is travellin' with Jim in the frunt uv the 'earse, w'ich, uv corse, is only the 'earse body on the back uv Jim's truck. We've jest gone a 'undred yards or so w'en Jim gives a 'owl: 'b***** h***', he yells, 'ther b***** meat! I forgot ter take ther meat ter ole Dozy (the local butcher)'. With that 'e wrenches ther flamin' wheel round an' ‘eads fer the slaughter yards. There 'e loads the ruddy meat (an operation in which we refuses point-blank to 'elp') in ter the 'earse 'n proceeds ter drive down the main street ter deliver it. Yer c'n imagine the yells uv joy from the butcher w'en 'e sees the coach! 'N' I tell yer sumthin' else - I'm a vegetarian fer the next cuppler weeks!'
End of Lofty's account.
He wasn't the only one!
Note: Berwick, aware of his informant's lurid language, kindly inserted asterisks in consideration of sensitive readers. Ed.
AND JUSTICE WAS DONE
Some few years prior to the first half of the decade of the 1930s, the Premier of Western Australia, James Mitchell (later Governor and knighted) was able to bring to fruition a project he had long espoused - that was to introduce into the gold-mining industry a system of annual medical examination whereby those miners who had contracted Miners' Phthisis would be refused, legally, permission to work underground.
The main difficulty arose in providing a living for those 'dusted' miners now without a job. To this end 'Jimmy the Mitch' as he was popularly called, had thrown open an area of land to become known as ‘The Miners' Settlement', south of Southern Cross, with the small town of Marvel Loch as its centre. There the ex-miners and their families were set up as a farming community.
After a time the scheme sorted itself out and things began to look-up. Miners by profession do not automatically become farmers, though most of the older men, who could physically meet the demands of this new life, strove mightily to meet the new conditions. -The young men, generally, took well to the farm work, as did those who left school; and it seemed that the dream of 'Jimmy the Mitch' was at last showing signs of paying off.
Then came the depression. Soon money for the scheme became unavailable. The Agricultural Bank (the forerunner of the Rural & Industries) under which the scheme operated, had no more funds. Not only that, but it had made advances against the next crop and the unfortunate 'new' farmers were in a severe predicament: they had no income and could look forward to none as the return for whatever crop they could put in belonged to the Bank.
In desperation numbers of them sold here and there a bag of wheat to local stores to buy food, or fuel - mainly food. However, late in 1933 the bank suddenly moved against them, charging the farmers with stealing from the bank and, in some cases, also charging storekeepers with receiving the wheat in payment, knowing it to be stolen.
To reduce a long story, thirty or so persons were so charged and It became evident, even to the authorities in Perth, that all was not well. Stipendiary Magistrate, H. D. Mosely was sent from Perth to Southern Cross to try the cases. Mosely was a fine man, a man soundly versed in the law, of strong moral character and, all in all, one in whom a technical wrongdoer could put his trust. The Public prosecutor appeared for the Bank and one or two men represented the accused.
All in all it was a cause celebre and the Perth papers sent some of their foremost reporters to cover the proceedings. Mosely did not put a foot wrong. On the first morning two of the local parsons bearded him in his retiring room to plead the cases of their respective flocks. With them he was firm, but unbending - 'I have a job to do', he said, 'and propose to do it fairly to the best of my ability, and with that assurance you must be content.' He left them to walk the few extra steps along the corridor and, to a solemn hush, entered the packed Southern Cross courthouse.
So began a week of case after case - similar in general terms, different in the extent and magnitude of their hardships and privations, dragged out, at first, from these reluctant miners. Mosely was magnificent. In firm but friendly manner he quickly showed his interest and concern, so that these initially hostile men and women (wives appeared for husbands physically unfit to be present), whose pride had been such that they tended to suffer in silence rather than let it be thought they sought charity, soon were pouring out their woes and their ingrained sense of injustice. They had been beaten by circumstances, not from any fault of their own.
Most of the livestock had been sold, or eaten. It was said that cats had been acceptable and even the odd rat gave some substance to the diet which included grass and weeds - 'palatable' was not a term they could afford to be bothered about. Kerosene substituted for petrol for a time and tyres were stuffed with grass. Clothing? At home they were ragged and often barefooted. For coming to town they reserved that one dress or suit which denied to some extent the ravages of time and poverty.
Moseley, stern but sympathetic, listened. He pointed out the seriousness of their actions but recorded no convictions against the ex-miners. And, justice was seen to be done.
FIRE BUG
It’s strange how one thing will lead to another. Startled by a conflagration which followed the gardeners' attempt to tidy up a Blackboy (Xanthorrhea pressii) - a plant that would have been here probably when Dirk Hartog was cruising our coast, my mind conjured up a picture from the past.
It was the fire that did it - the leaping flames and the billowing smoke. I was back in Southern Cross about sixty years ago. Southern Cross, an old gold mining town affectionately known as 'the Cross', was then experiencing a come-back, with mining flourishing throughout the district. In common with similar towns of the era, most of the buildings were timber-built with iron roofing. Fortunately, at this stage of the town's history there was a good water supply, thanks to C.Y. O'Connor, or this story could have had a very different ending.
About 2 am on a Monday morning we were rudely awakened by the furious ringing of the town fire-bell; to a curious golden light; to the sound of many feet rushing along the main street and to the shouts and yells of the local volunteer fire-brigade going into action - the engine man-handled, of course. The road was left clear for them, but the footpaths on either side were packed with townsfolk in all the motley display of garb that might be expected at that hour.
It appeared that some bright spark (no pun intended) had set fire to the Lesser Hall only about sixty yards from our place. Whoever it was had timed it nicely, for the hall was well alight before discovery was made. The Lesser Hall stood only a few feet away from Hall, consequently, it quickly became apparent that the immediate job was to save the Hall. Fortunately, the night was almost windless. Opposite the burning building was a cleared space of some size and here the local residents had a good view and room to stand back from the considerable heat generated. The fire brigade made a valiant effort to contain the blaze to the Lesser Hall. They succeeded but all the gear and all the records of the many various groups that had met in the hall were irrevocably lost.
All was quiet again. But not for long. In fact, only until Wednesday morning when, about 6 am, the chilling sound of the fire-bell rang out again. This time it was the building next to ours - one that had been converted from a General Store to a Service Station with a show-room and motor repair shop. Once again there was plenty of excitement but, with the fire-men really on the ball, the fire was put out in quick time. In fact all that I can remember from a kaleidoscope of memory is my Dad striding about commanding 'Do this' or 'Do that' and doing absolutely nothing while Mum wandered about with a pair of shoes in her hand saying, 'What shall I do with these?’ Perhaps it's just as well I cannot remember Dad's reply.
Again, things settled down to normalcy, but only until Thursday evening when the waiting room at the Railway Station caught fire, was discovered quickly and as quickly extinguished. There was only a little gathering of onlookers, for the station was a mile from the town.
But it was one more fire. It seemed a fire-bug was at work. People began to look wonderingly at one another. Suspicion was in the air. It was a most unpleasant feeling, beginning to poison the whole town. Who could this person be?
Friday passed without incident. Then, on Saturday evening, just as the pictures were coming out, at about 10.30 pm, a fire was seen deep under the Roads Board Hall, at the very centre of town. Someone had deliberately crawled beneath it - timber buildings were built off the ground on stumps - and set the fire well back. A local lad hurled himself under the building,
hauled out the burning debris and foiled the planned destruction.
This time action was taken. A hastily convened meeting of several leading men of the town - both Chairman and Secretary of the Road Board, the Post Master, the Bank Manager (my father), a couple of the members of the Road Board and me (by invitation) met in the Road Board Office and I was asked if ! would act officially as nightwatchman and guardian of the town. Why they picked on me goodness only knows -except that I was free, and over twentyone. I was issued with a .32 revolver, fully loaded, and told that it would be my duty to patrol the town and, in the event of meeting or seeing any suspicious character, I was to shoot without warning. Ye Gods! I had never fired a revolver in my life. I was given an instant brief lecture on the theory of small arms and told that stern occasions demanded stern measures; that I was acting under the instructions of responsible persons and that no blame would be attached to me. Comforting thought. At the time it did not occur to me as strange that neither the police sergeant nor his constable were present. The Committee were deadly serious. So, having agreed, I went straight on duty. It was then 11:30 pm and I was to patrol until 8 am.
I have spent a more pleasant night. Not that anything happened, except that at one stage I spotted a character moving cautiously from one point to another. Having put. all my Boy Scout training into somewhat belated practice, I was rather deflated to have him suddenly come up behind me then give a hearty sigh of relief as he breathed, 'Oh, it's you.' Believe me, his sigh of relief was a gentle zephyr compared with mine. He was one of the younger married men of the town and, as a self-appointed custodian of the peace, was trailing me as a suspicious character. We spent a few minutes consoling one another, then went our separate ways - his, to bed, mine to my solitary policing. . I have wondered since, just what was my legal position on that night. But it was so long ago.
There were no more fires in the town but the police swooped on two of the local young men and brought them to trial in the local court where they were remanded to Perth. There, although it seemed the evidence was strongly against them, a shrewd lawyer made much of the fact that, although the evidence against one was strong, that against the other was highly doubtful and, as they had been charged jointly, instead of severally, either both were guilty or both innocent. They were freed.
However, it was 'suggested' to the men that it would be 'inadvisable' for them to return to the Cross. And it was so.
From Rowethorpe Writings : a selection
Rowethorpe Retirement Village, Bentley, 1990.
This next story recounts something that happened on holiday in the early 1970s while visiting Bateman's, the residence of author Rudyard Kipling.
A SUPERNATURAL ENCOUNTER
It was all triggered off by Freda's ghost story, the other week, for it hit a chord in my memory of an incident that occurred some seventeen years ago when my wife (no, not Dora, my first wife) and I were holidaying in England for some eight months.
One day we found ourselves, after a deal of careful map reading and conversation with the locals, at Bateman's in Sussex. Actually, Bateman's is not the name of a village but that of a fascinating small manor house about a mile beyond the pretty and delightful village of Burwash, and is famed as the home for many years of that gifted novelist and poet Rudyard Kipling. Bateman's is, indeed, a small place amongst the many great places and houses of the British Isles, but it has about it an aura of homeliness that made it, the only one of the many great and historic residences that we visited, a place which we coveted as our own.
We spent some time examining and exploring the ground floor rooms and went upstairs to the more private apartments until we came to the great man's study, in time to find a gentleman locking it securely. I let out a hollow groan, whereupon he turned and enquired whether I were in some trouble. I curbed my natural bent of Australian humour and said that we had been hoping to see the study. In turn he informed me that, had I read the notices concerning the house, I would have been aware that it was closed to visitors from noon until 2 pm. This he did with such charm and good-heartedness that I responded in the same manner, but told him we were on our way to a place some distance away and had allowed only until two o'clock to get there.
His discovery that I, too, was keenly interested in Rudyard Kipling, led to such a discussion that one of his assistants came five times to remind him of closing time in descending order of brevity, concluding with ‘Your dinner is cold'. We thanked him for his interesting and informative talk and he said, 'Oh well, if you have to get away, I'll break a rule.' Whereupon he
unlocked the door and told us to go in and look around and please to close the door when we left.
We spent a long time in the study, maintained as though the great man himself were ready to go in and set to work. There was a copy of 'The Recessional', written in his own hand, lying on his blotter, a pen ready to hand and ink in the inkwell. We spent a long time looking at everything and recalling all the wonderful works he had created in this very room.
As we left the study Dorothy said to me, 'You're very quiet. I thought you would have been brimming over with ecstasy at this visit.'
I looked at her without speaking for a moment.
Then she spoke again. 'You not only are very quiet, but you look, somehow, rather queer.'
At this I found my tongue, and said in tones of awe and very quietly, 'I don't really know how to say this, but while we were in his study, I felt as though there were someone else in the room; not a person, but rather... a presence...' To my surprise, Dorothy replied, 'So did I. I wasn't going to say anything because I was afraid you'd laugh at me and reckon I have too vivid an imagination. But I did feel it.' I was staggered. This was something beyond my ken. I added, 'It wasn't a sort of ghostly feeling - rather a comfortable, warm feeling, as though someone was trying to make us feel at home.'
'That's just it,' said Dorothy.
At that moment, the head guide returned. We rather expected some comment about our still being there after having said we couldn't afford the time. Instead, he looked steadily at us and quietly said, 'So you have felt it, too. I have known several folk who have had the experience and you all have had the same awe-struck look. I, too, have felt that peculiarly warm feeling of friendship. I can't explain it, but it happens to only a few. You are privileged.'
From Rowethorpe Writings 2 : a selection
Rowethorpe Retirement Village, Bentley W.A., 1991.
